Only a Northern Song
by Helle Bright
Summary: Serena Brighton, a graduate student of Psychology and Education, is planted into the audience of a talk show to embarass Darien Worthing, a notorious singer. All goes as planned, except now the singer's manager is galvanized into further action.
1. Default Chapter

Title: Only a Northern Song  
Author: Helene  
e-mail: aishiteru@nightmail.ru  
Rating: PG-13  
Genre: Alternative Reality  
Disclaimer: with each new chapter I come to realize that I do not own   
a whole bunch of things, such as the "Beatles", "Phantom of the Opera",   
"Sailor Moon" and even the computer I used to type this.  
AN: This story does not feature magical powers, fighting against pure   
evil, or unearthly love conquering time and space. It is all about the   
ordinary mysteries and trivial miracles of human relationships. Just   
like George Harrison wrote: "This is only a Northern Song".  
  
  
Crowds, flooding the University from all directions, and music, blazing   
from loudspeakers, signaled the beginning of a recess. The place suddenly   
burst into activity. The Campus sticklers of politics and advocacy groups   
representatives were handing stickers and brochures to draw supporters   
and donations to their diverse Causes; psychology and sociology students   
were fishing for eligible respondents for their numerous questionnaires   
designated to complete their tedious researches; prominent professors   
walked briskly to escape their devotees, and childhood friends were   
desperately seeking each other in the hustle and bustle, hoping against   
all odds to have a cup of coffee together and reflect upon the "good old   
times".  
  
But even the exuberant wonders of Campus life failed to distract male   
gazes from a casually dressed blond standing near a wall money machine;   
their first excuse being her slender legs, slim waist and a splendid   
mane of aureate hair framing a delicate face and tumbling down to her   
knees. Having stopped to look a little closer, however, the young woman's   
not-so-secret admirers didn't seem to accept the challenge of her bored   
expression and semi closed eyes, choosing to saunter away rather than   
endeavor wooing the girl.   
  
All of a sudden, her back straightened, her tired pout transformed   
magically (Moon Jaw Power:) into a beaming smile, and her eyelids snapped   
open to reveal a gleaming pair of sky blue eyes; her entire being was   
emanating excited delight as she started mouthing the words of the "Phantom   
of the Opera" theme song that sounded from the loudspeakers.   
  
The mood, though, did not last, and the smile was instantly erased, as a   
tenor filled the busy hall. Strange enough, the singer's impact on the rest   
of the resident female population proved to be quite the opposite, for at   
least half of the present girls ceased movement, signing contentedly as   
their faces reflected sheer bliss mingling with utter adoration.  
  
The girls' reasons had been lost upon the first "Phantom" fan, which took   
off running immediately after having shown the signs of recognizing the male   
performer. Books clutched to the chest, hair in total disarray, she dashed   
wildly, barely managing to escape collisions with the people in her way, and   
muttering under her breath some poorly chosen unmentionables about a monster   
and its sadistic creators.   
  
Once safely out of the hearing distance, the recently formed whirlwind of   
gold slowed down her pace to walk further into the labyrinth also known as   
the faculty of social sciences. Finally, she stopped near a door of a closed   
auditorium.   
  
"Now, brace yourself, Sere" - she commanded herself. - "You were the one to   
bring this upon yourself, so don't you break down on me".   
  
"Oh, why on God's green earth did I choose to major in both Psychology and   
Education, and why did I have to excel in both" - she proceeded to moan   
quietly, having in the last moment chosen it over a hearty wail. The displeasure   
with the situation made known to the world, "Sere" took a few moments to school   
her expression, adjusted her outfit of a white mid thigh length skirt and a pale   
blue shirt, and swung the door open.  
  
"Good morning, class" - she grinned at the assembled students.  
  
**********************************************************************  
  
Dark and ominously silent, these are the words the occasional visitor would   
use to describe this place only to have the owners try and convince them   
that the lack of light was meant to soothe the artists' turbulent spirits,   
and that the quiet was part and parcel of the productive work setup. The   
narrow corridor seemed deserted, even a rare door opening and a lonely   
figure scooting fitfully in this or that direction did not make the slightest   
difference.   
  
The corridor led to a dead end, which featured a heavy wooden door. Number   
one, its plate said, and that's exactly what its fancy gilded handle looked.   
The handle squeaked, jerking and turning impatiently. Another squeak, and the   
next object to move was the door. It glided noiselessly, then stopped, leaving   
a few inches opening and showing a bunch of people bustling around in a   
strange room divided into two halves with a wall of glass and loaded with   
multi-handled equipment.   
  
"That's it for today, folks" - announced a cheerful voice. To one young man's   
opinion, however, the voice had been far too cheerful. In fact, judging by his   
sour mug, its cheerfulness had exceeded the level allowed by the current   
legislation.  
  
"I'm off" - he said curtly and strode brusquely down the corridor, leaving the   
girls behind him to stare longingly at his retreating figure.  
  
And what a magnificent figure had that been! Its long and powerful limbs, proud   
bearing, graceful movements and a splendid mop of charcoal hair to top it all   
had definitely earned their owner admiration of quite a few females, although   
any casual observer would find it surprising that the feeling could be   
perpetuated, as this otherwise perfect male species' face appeared to be   
perennially marred with either the bored frown he had shown bidding his goodbyes,   
or the arrogant scowl that had been put on a few moments after.  
  
"Surrounded by simpering fools" - he growled. "What a glorious fate! If the whole   
point of this whole career of the wonder boy with the wonder voice had been those   
hours of so-called recording and working my living daylights out in order to   
achieve the nonexistent perfect sound, so that my ever encouraging fans would   
become even more adoring, this is a feat as impossible as it is uncalled-for".   
Punctuating the speech to self with a derisive smirk, the man headed to his car.  
  
"Well, Dare, you were the one to bring this upon yourself when you first entered   
this studio to make up for not being able to enter the med school. Now bear the   
consequences" - he coaxed. A resigned sigh, and "Dare" got into his sleek silver   
Mercedes and drove away.  
  
*****************************************************************************  
  
Thankfully, the blinds had been closed, and the apartment was undisturbed by the   
slightest of sounds. That meant that the maid had already left, and no unexpected   
visitor had decided to grace the place with their unwelcome presence while she   
had still been there to let them in. Most importantly, however, that implied,   
that all he had to do before plopping down on the couch and burying his head into   
the cushions was to discard his cumbersome jacket and drop the car keys onto an   
entrance stand.  
  
"Hea-a-ave-e-en" - a self-assured male bel canto* called into the dim lit room;   
somehow managing to convey both delight at having a break, and a dare to the world   
outside the haven to intrude. "I'm in heaven..." - it crooned languorously, then   
stopped as abruptly as started.   
  
"Why are they so obsessed with Luis Armstrong's performance of Gershvin?" - mused   
the voice. "I mean, his cliche charisma of African-American jazzman should have worn   
off by now, and his feeble voice had been frankly unimpressive... Maybe..." - the   
proud owner of the tenor grinned to himself blithely if a little ruefully. "Maybe   
they'll..."  
  
The ruminations were brought to a halt by shrill ringing of the telephone, which was   
every bit as annoying as the myriad successors of Adam Bell's invention had ever   
seemed to their holders, provided that the latter had been worn out by their day   
exertion, frustrated by its results and eager for no single experience the bounteous   
world has to offer. Probably, all of the aforesaid had been true with regard to the   
young man, slouching on the couch, since, as he got up to answer the call, his almost   
carefree countenance swung instantaneously to reflect unparalleled dreariness.   
  
"Hello".  
"Dare darling, how was your day?" - drawled the caller, who turned out to be very   
feminine and very familiar.  
"Dreadful".  
"Well, then, it is about to change dramatically". Her husky and promising intonations   
usually signaled nothing but trouble, and he shuddered to think about the near future   
and being unable to resist her yet again.  
"What is it?"  
"Don't sulk. Doll up. I'm sending my driver to pick you up. It's a surprise".   
  
The next thing he heard from the receiver was the busy signal.  
  
That was just great. There went the deserved siesta. Her royal seductress had been   
at it again. And again it had failed to evoke even the tiniest bit of curiosity.   
  
*****************************************************************************  
  
The class had gone satisfactorily, the point had been conveyed and taken in without   
major mishaps, the practice session turned out a sweeping success... Just like   
professor Harrington had predicted, there had been nothing to worry about. A few   
quirks in the process, sunny attitude, well prepared framework, and, of course, the   
good grasp of the material had really been all it took to captivate the audience,   
which, in turn, had been quite expressive showing its acknowledgement. Life was   
just... Umm... Sign. Thanks God for not having learned how to drive...  
  
The head propped against the car window, the hair spilling all over the place, and   
the neck bent unnaturally, she allowed herself to be carried away to a fantasy world   
of peace and harmony, substituting the motor buzz for a string concerto and gazing   
intently into realms much farther than the horizon without paying attention to the   
road. Her mind had finally let the school thoughts go to leave her enjoying the rare   
moments of being indolent, spiritually as well as physically.   
  
"Serena! Serena, wake up. We're there".  
"Go away. I'm not ready yet".  
"Now don't whine. Come, Raye is waiting, and you know how she gets about waiting for   
you".  
"So?" She arched a brow quizzically, but an impish smirk, tugging at her lips, and   
mischievous twitching of her crystal clear eyes belied the show of indifference.   
"Don't give me that look".   
"It's not my fault that she demanded that I have supper with you guys".  
"It's not my fault you agreed".  
"Oh, poor baby, have I ruined your hope to spend the whole evening with your lovely   
wife? You should have told me, you know, instead of virtually kidnapping me from the   
University and driving us both here".   
"You're impossible".  
"Why thank you Chad, but how can you calmly compliment me when Ray is there waiting?   
Let's go".  
  
Serena did not wait for her companion to open the door for her. Instead, she climbed   
out and started pacing towards the restaurant. Once inside, she quickly scanned the   
establishment for the familiar jet-black hair of her best friend. Having spotted her   
target, she stalked towards her expertly.  
  
"What do you want?" - she drawled darkly.  
"How kind of you to bestow on us the priceless gift of your companionship! But   
whatever have you done with my spouse that he does not approach me?"  
"I think he is going to sulk for a couple of minutes" - Serena answered, giggling.   
"Do you terribly mind?" - she added tentatively.  
"Yep. We can't order without him, and I'm aware that you're starving".  
"Then you'd better go and fetch him, 'cause you know how I get..."   
"No need, you evil sorceress. Sir Chad is here to save his fair lady from your   
impending wrath".  
  
Both women laughed at the tall man's flamboyant demeanor, and at the way his chestnut   
bangs fell onto his face as he proudly straightened his back and squared his broad   
shoulders. He pulled himself a chair and indicated a waiter to take the group's orders.  
  
*****************************************************************************  
  
"Dare, you made it!" - she exclaimed enthusiastically as he walked in.  
"Don't I always?" - he reproached, offering her a dazzling smile to make up for the   
sarcastic implication of the question and the cynical glint in his slightly narrowed   
eyes. "Now let's get down to business".  
"You know" - she looked at him sullenly, - "you need to tend to your small talk".  
"Does it bother you?"  
"Nothing about you can bother me, and you are well aware of that" - she purred. "But   
matters of the heart put aside, this attitude may prove bad for the very business   
you are so impatient to discuss".  
"How come?"  
"Well, for one, you're likely to ward off the audience, and then, the media might   
grow to abhor it. Which brings me to the purpose of this rendezvous. You, my pet" -   
she intoned with exaggerated excitement, - "are going to participate in "Raye of   
Sunshine" talk show!"   
  
He hated that high pitch she always resorted to when she meant to sound young and   
impressionable. Really, she should realize that he could see through her   
supercilious tricks. The business was all they had in common, and he had enough   
insight not to jeopardize it; but sometimes, albeit, when she endeavored to con him   
with her charms, he would get almost irresistible urges to sever the relationship.   
  
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven...  
  
"Dare! Darien! Darien Shields, listen to me!"  
  
Of course, the straightforward approach had been just as bothersome. Her screech   
nearly made him clutch his ears, and the annoyed countenance she had assumed reminded   
him why he had been immune to the woman's notorious magnetism.  
  
"Yes Beatrice".  
"Yes as in "yes, I'll do it"?"   
  
Once again, she had switched from rightful indignation to seemingly childish   
hopefulness in less than thirty seconds. Surprising it was not, as it was no longer   
amusing. Rather than those, it was a golden opportunity that had to be grasped at all   
cost, even submitting himself to embarrassing questions and skeptic disposition of   
the accomplished journalist, famous for her meticulous disseminations of her subjects.  
  
"Yes".   
"Awesome. Now" - Beatrice continued, this time opting for her regular professional   
tone, underlining that he had better hang on her each and every word, since they   
would not be repeated. "Raye is one of those journalists..."  
  
The "business voice" was neither high pitched nor low and seductive. Instead, it was   
rather pleasant and very even; and that was the reason why it had failed to get the   
slightest reaction out of him. He wondered briefly whether she would prefer his   
exasperation to the current indifference had she known that she could only elicit   
one of the options. And, since the topic had not been particularly stimulating, he   
set to examine her features.  
  
Her luxuriant hair was cut to the shoulder length and died to a fiery color with   
gilded highlights; she had aristocratic face with high cheekbones and a perfect Greek   
nose, shrewd almond eyes and a graceful neck. Her skin did not just appear smooth,   
and she bragged not having to resort to padded bras thanks to the voluptuous curves   
no exertion could doom.  
  
Her communication skill was awesome, her education - excellent, her manners - flawless.   
In fact, she was ideal. But the ideal was not his. What a pity that only one of them   
should understand that.   
  
"...and remember that she always has something up her sleeve, and the only way for you   
to prevent this interview from backfiring is to maintain composure. Is that clear?"  
  
The fates had been on his side that day after all, for they let him hear the end of the   
lecture. Why thank you, ladies.  
  
"Yes Madam".  
  
*****************************************************************************  
  
"No".  
"Come on..."  
"No".  
"It will be so much fun!"  
"No way".  
"You can not refuse your best friend, can you? After all, I did choose you over Ames   
and Leeta".  
"Leeta had been already married, so she could not be your bridesmaid anyway".  
"Ames could".  
"No, Ray".  
  
She had attempted being gruff, raising her voice, and calm reasoning; she was on the   
verge of either bursting into onion-induced tears, or throwing her food at her nagging   
friend. Not that it would have helped, but it could still lift her spirits. Alas, she   
could not afford exhibiting weakness, for her opponent had been one of the most   
formidable journalists ever, one who would never hesitate to use anything to attain   
her goal.  
"Remember when we were on vacation, and you wanted to borrow my..."  
"Do not even say it".  
"As long as you agree to come to the show".  
"That's blackmail". Serena signed, slumping in her chair. Game, set, match, and the   
prize goes to Raye Flambeau. - "I'll do it".  
"Thanks, Sere. That means an awful lot to me". The journalist suddenly became very   
grave and severe. - "I wouldn't have sunk so low as to plant biased people in the   
audience, but what they are offering is a rank insult to my integrity. They wish to   
turn my baby into a forty-five minute indirect advertisement. I can't allow it, please   
understand".  
"I do. I detest the guy, remember?"  
"And that, my dear, is what makes you perfect for the job" - the elegant brunette   
grinned. "Although, I have been speaking about his producer. She had the nerve to   
approach my superiors without talking to me first. I don't have the slightest doubt   
that she had pulled some strings to make them impose this topic on me. So here is the   
battle plan". Raye leaned closer to Serena, obviously going for the image of a cunning   
plotter.  
"Now, ladies, let us forsake this sordid discussion and enjoy the evening" - interfered   
Chad. His wife had been obsessing over her management decision for as long as three   
days, and he really needed to distract her in order to get her thoughts to return to   
an infinitely more important subject, albeit, her adoring husband.  
"Later, then" - agreed his female companions.  
"Tomorrow?" - asked Raye.  
"Over lunch. In the Campus. Two thirty. I'll be in my office" - said Serena.  
  
*****************************************************************************  
  
  
glossary (if you need it):   
  
tenor - the highest of the male voices, or a part, written for such voice.  
bel canto - this word originates from Italian, and it means "beautiful   
singing". It refers only to the singing we hear in an opera and opera-like  
musical numbers. It can not be used for jazz and pop, and is hardly suitable  
for rock.  
  
the song that Darien sings in his appartment is "Cheek to cheek" by   
George and Ira Gershvin, and Satchmo's version is THE BEST  
  
Do you still have questions? Suggestions? Flames? R&R!!! 


	2. Default Chapter

Title: Only a Northern Song  
Author: Helene  
e-mail: aishiteru@nightmail.ru  
Rating: PG13  
Timeline: Alternative Reality  
Disclaimer: My prized possessions include complete works of Oscar   
Wild, and a collection of classic music. No Sailor Moon, or the   
Beatles, or their "Yellow Submarine" album. Oh, yea, and no "Phantom   
of the Opera" for me.  
Author Notes: A couple of weeks ago I've discovered a fanfic where   
Mamoru gets to play Pygmalion. No, I'm not copying that author's idea.   
Mine sprang from hearing a completely clueless singer perform "the   
Phantom of the Opera" theme. So I thought I would get a female "reform"   
the guy. Read and Comment, please.  
  
The massive limo maneuvered through antique gates, and pulled up at an   
elderly Victorian mansion. A uniform-clad chauffeur exited the car, opened   
the passenger door, and, having straightened, offered a gloved hand to   
whomever was inside the vehicle.   
  
There appeared a perfectly toned leg, and a feminine hand with numerous   
rings shot out to grasp the chauffeur's one. Moments later, a scowling   
woman in an elegant black business suit was standing in front of the doorway.   
  
"What is it this time, Beatrice?" - called out an exasperated male voice   
from the darkness of the limo.  
  
The woman moved to allow her companion some space so that he could get out.   
When he did, she raised her head slightly, a gesture that was meant to   
compensate for the height difference rather than to show defiance.   
  
"Was it too complacent for me to presume that men were supposed to act   
at least half civilly towards their female companions?"  
"No, my dear female companion" - he answered indulgently, and stuck out   
a hand. "You have been quite right, as you always are. Here, my lady,   
my modicum of common courtesy is at your service. I hope that it will   
suffice".  
  
He was being sarcastic. She hated it when he got sarcastic, and she had   
explicitly warned him against using that particular pattern of communicating   
right after he had settled down beside her on the smooth leather seat of   
the limousine. She should have known better, Beatrice realized with a   
profound sigh.   
  
"Do not do that in front of the camera" - she commanded gruffly, as they   
were climbing the stairs, leading to the main entrance of the building.   
"It won't do for you to embarrass me in public, since it will directly   
violate the contract".  
  
The only signal that he had acknowledged her words was a disgusted snort.  
  
*********************************************************************  
  
"OK, Serena, here is the plan of action" - announced Raye, pacing back   
and force briskly in the make up room. Her normally loose tresses were   
neatly pleated into a sophisticated form, and the innate charm of her   
shrewd eyes and somewhat thin lips was enhanced by efficient make up. A   
dark blue ensemble of a knee length skirt and a strict jacket added to   
the image of sheer career lady, which maid the journalist exceptionally   
proud.  
  
"There are three parts to the show. The first one is the introduction and   
the interview. The second will feature the opinions of prominent musicians   
and established theatre critics. The third part will allow the audience to   
ask their own questions and to express their own views. This is when we   
launch the attack. First I am going to let some three or four fans vent   
their utter adoration, and then..."  
"Poor Chad" - cooed Serena with mock earnestness, intercepting her friend's   
tirade. "How could you possibly deny your affectionate husband the pleasure   
of your undivided attention for so long as to think that up?"  
"And you must have stayed up all night learning that by heart" - said Raye,   
managing a perfect imitation of the tone Serena's earlier remark. "It must   
be quite convenient for you not to have anyone to owe your undivided attention   
to".  
"Did you have to make it personal?" The young woman's countenance turned   
instantly wary, and she cast an accusing glance at her counterpart.  
"I'm sorry, Serena". Looking at the blonde's doleful mug, Raye felt a pang of   
chagrin. "I should have remembered..."  
  
The apology and the making up scene that had been about to ensue was cut short   
by a girl that bounced into the room.  
  
"They're here, they're here" - she screeched enthusiastically. "Darien Worthing  
has just got out for his limo, and they're coming to the door. Susan is meeting   
them, and she's gonna take them right here, and so I've come here to meet them   
too!"   
"Calm down" - ordered Raye, - "and take Serena to the hall number 4".  
  
One pleading glance and a dejected "but" later the girl was walking Serena to the   
back door. Just then two persons were ushered into the room.  
  
The woman was in her mid twenties, outstandingly tall yet exquisitely proportioned.   
Her auburn hair went a little past her shoulders, its profuse vibrancy clearly   
enforced by an exclusive hairdresser. The short black dress, clinging to her curved   
figure, together with the black coat she was wearing over the dress, also bore many   
a mark of a touch of a reputable designer. The color of her narrowly slit eyes was   
almost olive, and the intelligence that flashed in their depths seemed eerie even   
in spite of her gracious smile.   
  
The man seemed a bit younger; his clothes could hardly be described as strict   
or elegant, his hair appeared rumpled, locks falling all over his forehead and   
blatantly refusing to do so in any preordained mode. His high cheekbones and   
tightly set jaw indicated obstinacy and control to a physiognomic, his expression   
and the glassiness of the ocean-blue of his eyes would be best rendered as sullen,   
and the whole package could only be viewed as challenging. The challenge, however,   
was more than welcomed, for it was accompanied by an air of utmost masculinity   
that could not fail to evoke the appreciation of the women and the defensiveness   
of the men.  
  
"Hello, I am Raye Flambe" - said Raye, moving to shake hands with the newly arrived   
guests. "You are Darien Worthing, if I am not mistaken, and you must be Beatrice   
Berry. I am very pleased to finally make your acquaintance".  
"Hello, Raye" - answered Beatrice courteously. "It is an honour to meet you, and to   
participate in your show. I've conducted quite a research before having my   
representatives conduct you about Darien's appearance in it".  
  
The subject of the women's conversation did not make a merest effort to introduce   
himself beyond shaking the journalist's hand. Even as he did so, he gazed sideways   
rather than straight at Raye, a misconduct that proved to be an advantage as he   
glimpsed a silhouette of a short female with shimmering hair as long her flowing   
dress, sweeping past her knees.  
  
Who could this mystery lady be, mused Darien silently, and why was she leaving right   
upon our arrival. She had to be young, and beautiful, with that narrow waist and   
slender legs of hers. An old hag could not have such a magnificent mane, as well as   
a prospective old maid, he decided firmly. One of those would not have nurtured it   
so lovingly, nor would she have picked such an alluring garment. She had to be lovely,   
and exciting, and absolutely...  
  
"Darien. Darien!"  
  
A hand that had fastened on his shoulder, and a shrill call into his ear brought his   
impromptu deduction spree to a halt.   
  
"What is it again?"  
  
She had grown accustomed to that exasperated tone a long time ago but it had been   
the first time he ever used it within the hearing range of a witness. That made her   
furious. An untainted rage sprang from the base of her throat, inhibiting her   
breathing and fogging her brain.   
  
"You are to be made up" - she informed icily, and turned her back to him, trying   
to make him feel inferior. "Then you are to enter that TV studio, and behave   
yourself. You are to smile, joke, and laugh, go along with all my ideas, exhibit   
good nature and genuine love for music. If you fail your contract shall not be   
renewed".   
  
The threat having been issued, Beatrice took Raye's hand and began leading her   
away from the room.  
  
"I hope you do not mind showing me around" - she said sweetly.  
  
*********************************************************************  
  
The amphitheatre-like hall, where the show was being conducted, was packed to   
the point that the producer had people sit on the stairs, and the microphone   
was being passed by the guests instead of the designated production workers.   
The first two parts had passed without much controversy, or astonishing   
revelations. The focus figure of the day answered the routine questions about   
the salad days of his singing career, joking that an under-trained vocalist   
was better than an under-qualified doctor and giving his trademark boyish   
smirk. He talked about his notorious friendship with his strikingly beautiful   
manager; claiming to be condemned to a hopeless devotion and drawing an   
artificially wide smile from the woman that was sitting beside him. He refused   
to discuss his family, his assertion of unwillingness to expose them to public   
scrutiny earning him a respectful nod from Raye.   
  
Traitor, Serena thought sourly. Not a half an hour had gone by, and she was   
already about to melt. It was discouraging that Darien Worthing's ability to   
draw so much empathy while speaking should overshadow his rank incapacity to   
do so while singing. People could not withstand the onslaught of those silky   
undertones in his suave words combined with dreamily blue eyes and attractively   
arrogant demeanor right out of a Victorian novel. When she came to think of it,   
the guy did resemble the Phantom when he did not insist on voicing Andrew Lloyd   
Weber's notes.   
  
But what blatant conceit to exploit those in pursuing career objectives when   
he never stopped to weigh up the meaning behind the glamour, and grasp the   
passion behind the sound. The man was too busy basking in his own glory to do   
any studying and exercising; therefore the lesson that he was about to receive   
was well deserved, decided Serena with finality. Cockiness should be suppressed,   
if only for productivity sake, she told herself before raising an arm.  
  
"Another opinion, the girl in the back row" - said Raye, and Serena stood up and   
bent a little to receive the microphone.  
"Mr. Worthing..."  
"Please call me Darien".  
  
His chest grew light with gleeful bubbles, and he had the toughest time coercing   
an excited smile, which was about to show on his face, into a more beseeming grin.   
His back bowed forwards, and his chin inched upwards so that he could regard the   
mysterious woman from the make up room. His inference prowess had not failed him:   
even from the distance, separating them, she looked everything it had promised her   
to be.  
  
"Darien, how long did you study to become a vocalist?"   
  
Her pitch had been low, each word had been pronounced just perfectly, and her   
intonation had been even more impersonal than the host's. An adoring fan she was   
not. Well, then, he would have to win her over.  
  
"You see, miss..."  
"Serena".  
  
Was she deliberately aim at being cold and aloof, or was she another Beatrice   
in disguise, he wondered.  
  
"Serena, I did not study or exercise before I started singing. It came to me   
naturally, I guess".  
"What came to you?"  
"The ability to sing. You know, use my voice to produce specific sounds".  
"Is that how you define singing? An ability?"  
  
The bubbles subsided, his fists clenched, and he had to fight to retain the   
amiable grin. It was a trap, and he could bet that it had been planned. That   
was the reason of her being in the make up room with Raye Flambe.  
  
"Would you rather I call it a gift?" - he inquired indulgently, as if talking   
to a clueless child.  
"I'd rather you call it an art, one that has to be learned, and mastered, and   
perfected. And when it is not, the results are devastating". The words were   
almost bursting from her mouth, and she was seemingly seething with rightful   
indignation.   
  
Only what right could she possibly have to be indignant! She did not know the   
half of it: the sheer anguish of failure, the desperate holding onto the whit   
of hope and future, the anger, the resignation, the tediousness of practicing...   
The results had to be salvaged, and no pretend fairy princess would rob him of   
his living.  
  
Deep in thought, Darien did not notice Beatrice rise from her seat and claim   
the microphone. Her threateningly derisive voice, though, could not be ignored   
that easily.  
  
"And you, my dear specialist, know just the way of acquiring an art?"  
"I did not say that" - said Serena hesitantly, not knowing how to explain   
herself.  
"Serena is a psychologist, and a teacher" - Raye cut in, - "and her profession   
is about acquiring knowledge".  
"Well, then" - started Beatrice, raising her head triumphantly, - "Why doesn't   
she teach Darien to regard music the way she does; if her training yields results   
and Darien's critics give him positive, our company will hire her to work with our   
other artists".  
"I'll have to decline" - answered Serena, - "because I am not a musician, and   
I do not know how to train one".  
"So, as far as I understand" - said Darien coldly, - "you are a musician enough   
to maintain that my singing is lacking in essential qualities, but not enough   
to point them out?"  
"If you insist" - obliged Serena, standing up. "Your technical merit is   
indisputable, you hit each and every note, and your general temp is flawless.   
However" - she paused for significance, - "there is no emotion in the sounds   
you utter except exaggerated self-confidence, which is why every aria you sing   
is rendered meaningless in your interpretation".  
"See, you are already acting as my mentor. Accept the challenge, keep this up   
for, say, three months, and if I improve you will get a well paid job" - he   
advised patiently, trying to get her to refuse and appear unreasonable by doing   
that.  
"Ladies and gentlemen" - said Raye, - "It is time for us to finish the show, but   
in three month we shall return to the topic, and see what how Serena's teaching   
will affect Darien Worthing".  
  
*********************************************************************  
  
"Cut" - sounded a shrill call of the producer, and the hall was instantly buzzing   
with almost overwhelming noise. Serena started making her way through the crowd,   
her teeth gnashing, her spine stiff and her head brimming with vicious plans of   
murdering her ex best friend. What was the inconsiderate fool thinking, accepting   
the bet that was not hers to accept. More importantly, how dare she do it in   
front of the millions of people, cutting off any way to escape the predicament.   
  
"I won't do it!"  
"Of cause you will, Sere" - coaxed Raye. "Think of all the publicity, and the   
opportunities for you if you win".  
"I won't do it!" - Serena yelled adamantly. Telling the guy what she thought of   
him was not that bad now that it was over and done with, but she would not submit   
herself to three full months of his callous treatment and heartless singing. For   
her, there was not a slim chance of him even attempting to change for better. She   
believed him to be selfish and conceited, and, darn it, she wanted it to remain   
that way.  
"Why not?" - queried a melodious female voice from somewhere above her. "Don't   
you believe that every person deserves a chance? I thought that it was an essential   
quality for a teacher like yourself".  
  
Serena looked up to see Darien's companion, Beatrice Berry. The woman was smiling   
knowingly, although her expression was rueful rather than smug. Darien himself was   
not there, having stalked out mumbling incoherent threats and curses.  
  
"That's not it". Serena sighed, the wind suddenly gone from her sails.  
"Then spend some time with him, make him see your side of the medal. For all you   
know, he might progress. The studio will reimburse all the expenses, and pay you   
for the lessons".  
"What would you gain from this arrangement? His disks sell just fine without   
further refinement" - said Serena suspiciously.  
"My dear child, had I needed him to better his singing I would have employed   
a professional. This I am doing for free publicity. The press will be infatuated   
with this story. "Pygmalion" reversed" - she smirked, turning on her heel and   
leaving the premises.  
  
*********************************************************************   
  
"Just how is she supposed to teach me how to sing in accordance with her   
allegedly credible standards?" - Darien ranted in the confines of the limo,   
spitting the words venomously. "I just know that insolent witch will fetch   
her favorite recordings, and force me to repeat after them till I lose my   
voice and acquire an inferiority complex. I could swear on the Bible" - he   
continued louder than necessary, - "that she is infatuated with the Three   
Tenors, and will tolerate nothing different! Why can't we just set up a couple   
of lessons, and invite the press so that..."  
"Would you stop?" - implored Beatrice tiredly. His bawling was heightening the   
headache that had started at the studio. She knew better than explain that they   
needed to maintain appearances in order to boost the selling of his records, or   
endeavor persuading him that the girl could actually enhance his singing. However,   
she wanted some peace and quiet, and the plea might have been answered.  
  
Not today, she realized, as he kept on relentlessly. Well, she thought, there was   
one good thing about the whole ordeal. Serena was gorgeous, in a fairy princess   
way, which was different and, therefore, dangerous. But Darien was not aware of   
the fact, and that let her assume that he was no more interested in other women   
than he was in her.  
  
*********************************************************************  
  
"The nerve of them both to believe that I'll jump at the chance of doing   
something for them" - fumed Serena, pacing the make up room. "Those conceited,   
complacent, condescending, impudent..."  
"Good-looking" - supplied Raye, giggling at her friend's outburst.  
"Good-looking, insolent, stuck-up..."  
  
Serena's voice was drowned by the sound of Raye's hearty laughter.  
  
"So... You... Find... Him... Good... Looking?" - articulated the journalist   
between snorts.  
  
The pacing girl stopped, and, whirling around, went sprawling on the floor,   
unable to preserve her balance. She groaned, scrambling to her knees.  
  
"I do" - she admitted guiltily. "When I saw him for the first time, it was   
like a dream came true. Those rebellious bangs and defiant eyes behind the   
domino mask, together with the cape swirling about him to the tune of "Music   
of the Night", you know, from Weber's rock opera... Everything about him made   
him the very image of the Phantom of the opera. And then" - Serena smiled   
ruefully, - "he embarked on singing. Every sound he made was forced, every   
gesture artificial. He ruined the magic, and I've been resenting that ever   
since then".  
"You are out of your mind" - declared Raye. "You decided to lash out at the guy   
because he had ruined some magic?" - she said incredulously.  
"That's right" - nodded the unrepentant Serena. She saw no fault whatsoever in   
her logic. Whatever magic she discovered in the behaviorist world was rightfully   
hers, and nobody had a right to steal it.  
"So what are you going to do?"  
"Take revenge and have my way with him, since his master is so benevolent as to   
let me do it".  
  
The grin that started spreading on the girl's face, however genuine, was hardly   
appropriate for a young benevolent teacher. It could only be depicted as sinister,   
and Raye would have been frightened out of her mind to see it on the usually   
gentle mug of Serena had she not been aware of the fact that her friend's evil   
schemes never reached their designated ends.   
  
********************************************************************* 


	3. Chapter 3

Title: Only a Northern Song  
Author: Helene  
e-mail: aishiteru@nightmail.ru  
Rating: PG13  
Timeline: Alternative Universe  
Disclaimer: My prized possessions include the complete works of Oscar   
Wild, and a collection of classic music. No Sailor Moon, or the Beatles,   
or their "Yellow Submarine" album. Oh, yea, and no "Phantom of the Opera"   
for me.   
I also have to note that I've borrowed a few ideas from the fanfic by   
MoonRyoko, which is absolutely fascinating. Go read her stuff minna,  
mine is unfinished anyway.  
Hey!  
HEY!  
Where did you go? Get Back Here!  
  
Chapter III  
  
Sunshine flooded the spacious studio, tinting pink the pastel wallpaper,   
and reflecting from the golden-haired figure that occupied the spacious bed.   
The figure's face was burrowed into the pillows as a result of several   
valorous attempts to ward off the impending morning.   
  
Either a fate begrudged the slumberer her quiescence, or it was simply the   
time for the moirai to sever the short thread of the slumber term, but the   
silence of the soundproofed apartment was shattered by a beeping noise. The   
young woman in the bed stirred, hugging the pillow closer.  
  
"No," she mumbled, moving her knees to her chest. "It's not time."  
  
The source of the sound, however, being obviously an inanimate object, did   
not acknowledge the words, and the noise continued.   
  
"No." This time her tone was firm and unyielding, resembling that of an adamant   
mother. Any child within any proximity would have obeyed, but there was none.  
  
"Ooph."  
  
The covers flew to the floor, as the disquieted tenant emerged from her haven.   
Without paying any heed to her beeping purse, she stalked off towards the bathroom,   
and slammed the door behind her. In a few moments, patter of running water echoed   
through the place, drowning the previous sound.  
  
Then there was some whirring of a hairdryer that was succeeded by clattering. A   
half-an-hour pause, and the woman stepped back into the room. Her shiny hair cascaded   
down her lithe body, adorned with a fluffy white towel. With a determined frown she   
walked towards the fridge, opening it in one smooth motion.  
  
Instantaneously, the frown was forgone in favor of an alarmed flinch.  
  
"Oh no," she exclaimed melodramatically, "It's empty!"  
  
Any further antics were nipped in the bud by a deafening banging on the apartment   
door.   
  
"Miss Serena Brighton, open door! This is the police," resounded a voice from the   
corridor. "You don't have a right to remain silent; everything you don't say will   
be used against you in court, and if you require a lawyer, I've got one right   
here with me."  
"And what sanguinary crime have I allegedly committed?"  
"You defy you best friend by not calling her when she desperately pages you..."  
"You, my dear," cut in the exasperated Serena, "relinquished all right to my friendship   
when you made the rank decision to page me on my holiday."  
"Well, then, what about disowning me in person?" inquired the voice solicitously.  
"I'll never be able to disown you in person."  
"I've brought donuts, and fresh coffee."  
"Oh Raye..."  
  
The towel-clad girl scurried to unlock the door, her mouth already watering   
at the thought of food. A friend in need is a friend indeed, she reasoned   
before swinging the door open.  
  
Immediately, she wished she hadn't, staggering back and clutching the scanty   
covering. Blood rushed to her cheeks as she regarded her friend, and a tall   
man, standing next to her.  
  
"Serena, this is Mr. Denis Diamant, the lawyer from Berry Ltd. Denis, this   
is Miss Serena Brighton."  
"Pleased to meet you," stammered the man, whose skin seemed to turn as pale   
as his shoulder-long hair. "I'd better wait in the car."  
  
His leave-taking was accompanied by giggling, and, had he listened, he would   
have learned that it originated from the both females.  
  
*********************************************************************  
  
"OK," gasped Serena a few moments later, "Breath in, breath out, breath in,   
breath out..."  
"What's for?"  
"That's supposed to calm you down."  
"Does it work?"  
"Not with my students."  
"Oh."  
"It has worked with you though. You're no longer simpering as a giddy   
schoolgirl."  
"Of course I'm not. I quit that habit right after the prom."  
"Very cute. Anyway, what made you brave my morning rampage? And what does   
the business-suited fellow have to do with this?"  
"First of all, I wanted to congratulate you. Your picture has been printed   
almost in all the morning papers. Everybody wishes to know who you are, what   
is the real nature of your relationship with Darien Worthing, and whether you   
are really going to train him."  
"You know," mused Serena, "if you were my student I would have graded your   
answer with an F. There's no single word that has anything to do with my   
question."  
"Well, excuse me for not wanting to shock you," exploded the journalist. "How   
would you react if I had told you that Beatrice Berry demands that you attend   
the press-conference she is calling at eleven o'clock this morning?"  
"That's easy," came the instantaneous retort. "I'd inform you that I wouldn't   
come."  
"See?" Raye's voice was highly supercilious. "Now you understand the need to   
prepare you! So get into that closet of yours and dig up something not overly   
casual to wear while I call Denis back to the apartment. And don't you dare to   
argue," she added authoritatively, noticing Serena's obstinate stance and open   
mouth, "or I'll take away the donuts."  
  
For a moment, when her friend shut her mouth and shrugged, Raye thought that   
her friend was going to comply with the order. However, the blond proved her   
ability to withstand both temptation and threat.  
  
"Why?" questioned Serena, slightly cocking her head.  
"Beatrice will give me exclusive rights to film your sessions with Darien if   
I get you to cooperate with her publicity campaign."  
"Yesterday you would have referred to that as a publicity scheme," accused the   
mistress of the studio.  
"Look, I won't be slanting her company positive or negative, and your impromptu   
bet is the rage today. As a journalist, I have to get the scoop."  
"Oh."  
"I won't pressure you into anything, but please give it a chance. The draft of   
your contract is quite fair, and Denis is here to change anything you wish," implored   
Raye, "and you still will get to royally embarrass mister magic-spoiler."  
"Yes," drawled Serena, "him. I still want my revenge, but I want it on my terms."  
"Whatever, just dress up, and I'll get Denis."  
  
*********************************************************************  
  
The spunk of that girl, mulled Denis Diamant, smirking at the document in   
his hand. The formerly pristine printed sheets of paper were streaked and   
marred with blue ink. His labor had been lost, and, although he and Beatrice   
stayed up all night to accomplish the perfect draft, he could not put the   
blame on the second party to the contract.  
  
The shrewd girl with ridiculously long hair established her presence in his   
mind when he had entered her apartment for the second time. She had been   
cool and collected, all traces of her earlier embarrassment gone. In a perfect   
pattern of the business-like tone she had advised him on her decision to acquaint   
herself with the contract in order to make the undoubtedly necessary amendments.   
Half an hour later, he had realized that some of her ideas were inconsistent   
with his employer's plan, and that he would do his best to alter the aforementioned   
PR masterpiece, which could gain him the attention of Serena Brighton.  
  
So he squared his shoulders and opened the heavy wooden door, the plate of which   
said 'CEO of Berry Ltd'.  
  
"Beatrice?"  
"Morning, Denis," answered a wan voice from a leather sofa near the huge widow.   
"Did she sign the contract?"  
"No," he started, struggling to find the right words that would not infuriate his   
boss.  
"Thought so." Beatrice's remark was so casual that one would never guess she had   
had elaborated the document. "But I had to try."  
"She's..."  
"I know. What are her terms?"  
"No releasing personal information, including her last name. No press conferences   
and public appearances until the whole ordeal is over. And she wants to choose an   
accompanist herself."  
"Good. She's sharp, but she never learned anything about my business. I'll play   
the mystery card, and let the vultures, which they call reporters, make so many   
insinuations as to fuel the public interest. She did not stipulate anything about   
making insinuations, did she?"  
"No."  
"Perfect." This time her voice was animated. "Poor little Serena! She wants to protect   
her personal life, but she can't protect herself from something she is not aware of.   
After all, who cares what's to become of the ingrate when we're through."  
  
I do, he almost blurted out. However, given the circumstances it was highly unwise   
to upset Beatrice, and the knowledge that his new interest would eventually undergo   
a crisis and need someone to support her served to justify his silent acquiescence   
to the boss's last comment. It was not the right time to play a knight in shining   
armor... yet.  
  
*********************************************************************  
  
A heavy wooden table, long enough to accommodate a whole board of Directors,   
cushioned chairs, and a flattering lights system - Berry Southern Hall had   
it all, and many things besides. In front of the table there sat dozens of   
reporters, armed with the inherent pens, writing-pads, and Dictaphones.   
Everything and everyone were ready for the much-awaited press conference, as   
they had been forty five minutes ago. However, the four seats at the table   
were still empty.  
  
Why?  
  
One Beatrice Berry was greatly troubled. Four front table seats, and only   
three people to accommodate them. Four seats, for Beatrice herself, her protegee,   
Raye Flambee, and the uncooperative Serena Brighton. Four front table seats, and   
a whole room, packed with witty sharks that would probably enjoy laughing at her   
expense unless she figured out a way to distract them.   
  
Let me tell you, though, that Beatrice Berry was quite a resourceful woman, and,   
which is more expedient, she had no qualms about anything when it came to business.   
Therefore, after careful consideration, and even more careful planning, the issue   
was resolved.   
  
Donning her most professional smile, Beatrice left her study to join Darien,   
Denis, and Raye in the adjoining room.  
  
"Raye?" she called out authoritatively.  
"Yes, Ms Berry?" replied the journalist, arching a brow. Did Beatrice   
Berry treat everyone as her propriety, she wondered incredulously. "Did   
you want anything?"  
"Would you take the second chair from Darien to the left?"  
"The second?"  
"Yes, the second on the left."  
  
Raye was puzzled. Did the woman really mean to deliberately leave an empty   
chair between Darien and herself? Why? Was it another public relations trick?   
If it was, she hoped it wouldn't backfire against her best friend.  
  
"Come," said Beatrice in the same dictatorial tone. "Let's get this show   
on the road."  
  
*********************************************************************  
  
Let's get this show on the road, she said, walking brusquely into the   
Southern Hall. Public appearances had been stipulated by his contract,   
which left him no other option except to follow his overly industrious   
manager.  
  
Normally, he never sulked about that duty. This time, however, was   
different. This time it was not all about a new record, and spouting   
corny lines on having had a great time working on it, or having derived   
inspiration from an exceptional experience. Instead, he was required to   
fend off either unflattering to rude comments on his singing, or unflattering   
to rude guesses as to the nature of his relationship with his new teacher.  
  
Who, by the way, had wiggled her way out of the ordeal without as much as   
stirring a finger. He could tell that the brash blond had received a handsome   
sum for sitting there with a critical countenance while he exerted his vocal   
cords, and allowing her photo to be put next to his in the most prominent   
mass media. By the end of the bet period she would become a celebrity, all   
thanks to a conniving sensation seeker who had planted her into the audience   
of that talk show, and his own mistake of attempting to taunt her in front   
of the camera.  
  
Sitting down on the chair next to Beatrice's, he flashed a smile in the   
direction of the cameras, another disagreeable duty. It made him feel as   
if he was selling himself rather than a record that had not been produced   
yet. The feeling intensified at a thought that in a few moments he would   
also be expected to lie, and the smile became even more arduous to hold.  
  
"And where is Serena? Is she coming?" yelled a voice from the hall.   
  
It was immediately joined by other voices, but then Beatrice stood up and   
the cacophony subsided.  
  
"Serena, as you had all been informed," she began calmly, "was supposed to   
attend the press conference, and a seat had been reserved for her. However,   
in the last moment she confided that she felt uncomfortable with being   
subjected to close scrutiny, and we decided to accommodate her wish to remain   
anonymous. Now would you raise your hands before asking the questions? I'm   
sure you're all familiar with the procedure. Yes, please," she said, indicating   
a reporter from the front row.  
"What is Serena's last name?"  
"Berry ltd prefers to keep it a secret. Moreover, if any medium discloses   
this information, Berry ltd will sue it for intrusion into the private   
life of its employee. Serena is very valuable to us. Yes?" Another reporter   
was chosen.  
"Don't you feel threatened by her? She could take Darien away from you."  
"Darien and I were never an item," grinned the redhead. "However, I am   
not sure about him and Serena. For all I know, they could have staged   
the scene in the studio to spend more time together thanks to the bet.   
Next question, please."  
"Darien, is it true? Are you in a relationship with Serena?"  
"That's ridiculous," he said, having expected the question and rehearsed   
the response. "We're not even friends, although that can be rectified after   
we spend some time together."  
  
He scanned the room to make sure that his point had been understood. But   
when his gaze landed on the door, his smile almost slipped.   
  
For in the doorway there stood his adversary in all her golden glory. Her   
defiant smirk told him that her intentions were not at all honorable, and   
that they did not entail becoming friends. The squirt was clearly mocking   
both himself and his employer. What galled him even more, she was enjoying   
herself immensely.   
  
"Why didn't miss Flambee take the seat next to Darien?" he heard someone ask.  
"That seat belongs to Serena, and only to Serena. I believe that she will take   
it when she is ready." That, of course, was Beatrice. It was just like her to   
emphasize the human factor, and veil the fact that it was all about money.  
  
"Darien, during Raye's show you seemed quite anxious to have Serena help you,   
and now you confide that you want to become her friend," told another reporter   
smugly. "Perhaps, you are interested in her? Romantically, I mean?"  
  
A quick glance at the source of his predicament (out of sheer curiosity, he   
assured himself) revealed her shoulders to be shaking with suppressed laughter,   
although why would she laugh at the obscene insinuations was beyond his   
understanding. Well, if they did not bother her...  
  
"No comment," he said firmly. His charmingly sly grin, however, had belied both   
the tone and the meaning of his words. "You can ask me again when Serena takes   
her rightful place," he added with a nod at the empty seat.  
  
*********************************************************************  
  
Beatrice could not believe her luck. The unmanageable singer was cooperating   
with her scheme without even being privy to it. With one look at his would be   
mentor in the ways of singing Beatrice could tell that Darien's initiative   
could very well cost him a limb or two. The girl was seething with sheer rage.   
The sparks of animosity between the two, however, did not disconcert the PR   
expert. Given their contracts, the pair would carefully consider any action   
that could endanger the potential profit of Berry ltd.  
  
*********************************************************************  
  
"What? Was! That!?"  
  
Darien could swear he heard Serena grit her teeth as she had spat the   
question. Her eyes were narrowed, and her previously rosy lips were blood   
red, probably because she had bitten them, since he hadn't seen her apply   
a different lipstick. Right after the journalists had dispersed she had   
stormed into the Hall, looming over the table where he still had been sitting.  
  
"What was what, pardon," he inquired courteously, flashing her a winning   
smile to deliberately add to her frustration.  
  
"That!" she bellowed. "That stunt you pulled in here that will make my life   
a hell on Earth!"  
"I was doing my job, specified in my contract with Berry ltd," he told her   
smugly, forgoing the speech on giving as good as he had gotten during Raye's   
show. "Would you like to look at it?"  
"Don't drag me and my company into that, Darien," said Beatrice with a weary   
sigh. She really didn't want to deal with the incensed blond, and she didn't   
see fit to do so at that moment. "Would you join me in my office, Raye? We   
still have a few things to discuss. Let's leave them alone so that they arrange   
for the accompanists' audition." With a warning glance in the direction of her   
cumbersome client, Beatrice glided out of the room with Raye in tow.  
  
Serena watched her friend exit, fury and fear vying for supremacy in her mind.   
Fury with Raye for conning her into accepting the bet; fear for the peaceful   
lifestyle she loved to lead. Since the moment Darien had hinted at a possible   
affair between them, the implications of the insinuation were weighing heavily   
upon her. If it had not been for the ever-present irritation with the raven headed   
man, she would have long since bolted.   
  
But it was there, a potent tug, urging her to go at him, claiming retribution she   
knew she would not get, and demanding explanations, which she knew she would not   
find sufficient. The deed had been done, and there was nothing she could do to   
secure her future.   
  
"Did you really say it because Beatrice told you to?"  
"Nope." He had the gall to smirk triumphantly, rising from his chair.   
"Then why?"  
"You were laughing at me," he explained casually, "and now it's my turn to laugh   
at your expense."  
"This Saturday, nine a.m.," she said coldly. The objective of the mission was to him  
realize exactly how bad he was, and the first step was to find an accomplice,   
preferably one who knew a lot about music. "Arrange for a studio with a grand piano,   
and tell Ms. Berry to post an ad for the audition. And don't forget to attend."  
"What's for? Don't tell me you will actually have a say in the decision."  
"Consider that to be your first lesson. Your proud mistress will undoubtedly want to   
flaunt you along with yet another new member of the crew."  
"Since when do you care what Beatrice would want," he demanded scathingly. "No,   
don't answer. It's your contract isn't it? For all your talking about singing   
being an art, there's actually only one thing you want. Money. And you dare call   
Beatrice MY mistress when she was the one to plant you into the audience at the   
show."  
  
With those words, Darien swung on his heel and stalked away.  
  
*********************************************************************  
  
Well, is it at all believable? I do hope to get an answer to that question. 


	4. Chapter 4

Title: Only a Northern Song  
Author: Helene  
e-mail: aishiteru@nightmail.ru  
Rating: PG13  
Timeline: Alternative Universe  
Disclaimer: My prized possessions include the complete works of Oscar Wild,   
and a collection of classic music. No Sailor Moon, or the Beatles, or their   
"Yellow Submarine" album. Oh, yea, and no "Phantom of the Opera" for me.  
AN: Another installment of my favorite project. I hope you enjoy it as much   
as I do.  
  
Chapter IV  
  
Serena's tailored trousers went flying onto the malachite-green tiles, and   
her dainty feet trampled into the half-filled bathtub, sending splatters   
across the small room. Her unsteady hand pulled at the small knob right   
under the tap, as its counterpart reached for the showerhead, directing   
the tepid jet at her tense shoulders. But neither the massaging water nor   
its soothing murmur were able to mitigate her vexation.  
  
Money, money, MONEY! Was there anything in that bloody world that was not   
solely about bloody banknotes? Raye agreeing to do the 'into-talking', Beatrice   
with her reality show kick, and Darien ruining her feeble chance at retaining   
her privacy... Boy did she hate it, the whole situation, the whole bunch of   
people, including herself. Especially herself, herself more than anybody else,   
for having proved a gullible fool and let her deepest convictions disappear   
down the drain.  
  
'Never Ever Allow Yourself to Dislike of Disregard a Student.' Was it only three   
days ago that she had dictated the maxim to her current class? Was it only three   
hours ago that she had breached it?  
  
Moving the jet above her head, Serena painstakingly listened to the sound of   
water pounding against her scalp. The mirror was long since covered with   
frosted sheen, and the air had grown overly moist, but it wasn't until her   
hand started to ache with exertion when she finally let her concentration   
slip along with the showerhead.  
  
It was crystal clear that some serious decision-making was in order, the   
beginning of which was signaled by adding a generous portion of bath salts   
into the water and lathering her hair with hop-scented shampoo.  
  
The ink on the contract had undoubtedly dried, and the job was not to be   
dismissed, she resolved, clawing at her skin as if attempting to punish   
herself. Giving up was not an option.  
  
*********************************************************************  
  
Giving up was never a possibility. Life was about facing challenges, and   
going on no matter what. That much had always been clear to him, from the   
day he had walked out of the hospital after the accident, which had killed   
his parents, to the day when he had walked into Berry Studios after his   
scholarship had been withdrawn due to the bankruptcy of the granting fund.   
And now when his persistence appeared to have been rewarded, it was definitely   
not the time to deny his principles all because of a whimsical cormorant.  
  
Which still left a bulk of pending problems, not the least of them being his   
future course of actions, mulled Darien tilting his face towards the cool   
stream and raking his fingers repeatedly through his soaking bangs.  
  
The mentress, he recalled, feeling a bit calmer than moments ago, had seemed   
rather determined to attain her ends, which, regrettably, had to have something   
to do with his persona. Otherwise the she-cat wouldn't have insisted that he   
attend the accompanist auditions. 'Consider it your first lesson,' she had   
administered. As if!  
  
An open confrontation, however, could very well backfire, so the temptation   
to play hooky, attractive as it might be, was to be resisted. Beatrice would   
have her little reality show, even if it meant pretending to heed the instructions   
of Miss supposedly Bright and howling at the top of his lung capacity to reveal   
the inefficiency of such training.  
  
Well, if that was not a plan he didn't know what was. Nothing fancy, or   
elaborate, but at least it was something to stick to, plus it was no longer   
necessary to stand in the shower cabin waiting for the water to either cool   
his steaming temper or make his skin shrivel. Thank the Supreme Being for   
the healing power of rationalization.  
  
Twisting the taps to stop the flow, Darien wrenched the shower cabin door,   
and yanked a towel out off the rack. Not bothering to dry away the drops of   
moisture from his body, the scowling singer wrapped the cloth around his hips   
and stamped out onto the poor defenseless carpet of his living room without   
a whit of remorse about leaving wet footprints on the handmade delicacy.   
Anger often does that to people, and the occasions when it makes them stamp   
onto infinitely more precious entities are unfortunately no less frequent.  
  
*********************************************************************  
  
Thank God for the healing power of relaxation, thought Serena after quite a   
few more minutes of the bubbled bliss. If it were not for the relaxing affect   
of the bath her pesky cognitive dissonance would have been still bugging her,   
and the Worthing case would have still been unresolved, while the solution was   
as obvious as they come.  
  
From that moment and for the period of the contract validity Darien Worthing   
is to be considered and treated as an ordinary pupil with all the rights and   
responsibilities pertaining to the said position. He shall be addressed with   
maximum politeness and instructed with maximum meticulousness. His headway in   
the ways of singing shall be assigned the top priority among the tasks and   
targets hereof, including the personal preferences of Serena Brighton. The   
relationship between the said Darien Worthing and Serena Brighton shall be   
of purely professional nature. The statement endorsed mentally by Serena   
Brighton inside her bathtub on the date hereof. Signed, Serena Brighton,   
period.  
  
Now how to reach for the hair conditioner without fully emerging from the   
water?  
  
*********************************************************************  
  
By Saturday morning everything was ready. Studio number one had been given   
a complete makeover: the mercury blue walls had been covered with a layer   
of saffron-yellow paint, stained with various shades of brown, red and orange;   
all the furniture was changed for more accommodating models, and the meager   
illumination had been replaced with special TV lights, designed to flatter any   
face that would come within a shooting range of the cameras, that were to be   
brought by the TV crew. The brand new Yamaha piano, acquired for the particular   
occasion, preened in the middle of the recording room right next to the microphone,   
and the wall behind them was adorned with a poster with Michel Crawford in a white   
domino mask and a bulky cape. The ornamental plants in two opposite corners made   
for a nice finishing touch.  
  
Plopping onto one of the two armchairs near the console, Raye nodded approvingly   
at the handiwork of her set designers. The formerly forbidding place was finally   
ready for filming something other than a dismal clip or a scene out of a horror   
movie. Not that she was sure that such scene would not take place in the now homely   
studio, given the defiant disposition of her main characters, who were busy arguing   
at the adjacent office.  
  
They had arrived almost simultaneously, Darien preceding Serena by mere minutes.   
Come to think of it, their reactions to their new workplace were amusingly similar,   
and similarly amusing. Both had seemed to freeze on their tracks upon opening the   
door, and both had been barely able to verbalize their first impressions. The looks   
on their faces, however, had been more than enough, and she sniffled dramatically   
at the memory that the moments had been lost to her audience.  
  
Why, the ever-so-suave Darien stood gaping as a landed sole before squeezing his   
eyes, leaning on the wall with an actually pitiful moan and sliding down to sit on   
the floor. And Serena, the infamously sweet Serena, who prided herself on being   
unable to inflict any kind of disciplinary punishment upon her students, gripped   
the doorframe and glared daggers at the almost sobbing man, her cheeks inflating   
as she let off puffs of air in a labored attempt to assuage the impending fit.  
  
What a pity that the two had opted to take the ventilation of their feelings   
somewhere else, the defiant Darien surprisingly following the sweet Serena's   
lead. Oh what would she give to witness that discussion, or, better still, to   
film the whole thing! They had to be screaming themselves hoarse, and being away   
was immensely frustrating.  
  
*********************************************************************  
  
The keen journalist would have been even more frustrated if she were to find   
out what was really going on in the small office of one of the producers, to   
where the two adversaries had retired. Having crossed the room in a few confident   
strides, they settled at the opposite sides of the desk, Serena authoritatively   
taking the leather armchair of the owner, and Darien sitting in front of her.   
Both had their hands folded on the polished surface of the bureau, and their   
features schooled into sulky frowns, which they imagined to be purely professional   
expressions.  
  
"I trust it was you who instructed the staff to furnish the studio with that Yamaha   
rather than the required grand?" queried Serena in a diligently enforced low pitch,   
which she had been practicing for the duration of good three hours to attain the   
present perfection.  
"A grand would not have fit into the door, so they decided the Yamaha would have to   
do," related Darien, whose nonchalance was about as genuine as Serena's calm. "After   
all, the place was already being refurbished to meet your other requirements, I   
believe."  
"My only requirements were the ones that I asked you to communicate. I don't care   
much for colors and wallpapers."  
"Well, neither do I. I'd rather the studio remained as it was."  
"And I'd rather the grand was provided. Its range of sound is bigger than the one   
of a common forte piano."  
  
Serena's disappointed sigh was followed by Darien's, each taking the time to dwell   
on the new reason to be upset rather than the surprising ease with which they   
accomplished the feat of conducting a civil conversation without a single acid   
remark, or causing a detrimental scene they had individually resolved to avoid   
at all cost. But then, it is quite a challenging task to acknowledge any goodness   
about the person one deems his or her personal reminder of the existence of evil in   
their otherwise agreeable world.  
  
Their nearly companionable reverie was broken only by an external interference   
courtesy of an impatient journalist and a rabid executive, who barged through   
the door as if expecting to find a couple of cooling corpses.  
  
"What's taking you so long?" questioned the irate women, casting disbelieving   
glances at the forlorn pair. "What's there to talk about for so long? Everything   
is ready for the audition, so get going for God's sake."  
"We need another few minutes."  
"Whatever for?"  
"Didn't I insist upon having the last say in all matters concerning my designated   
job?"  
"I see," drawled Beatrice derisively. "Well, I'm glad you're finally getting along,   
so we'll leave you two to whatever you want. You have three minutes."  
"Thank you."  
  
Darien turned to watch his boss withdraw at Serena's mild request, and yet again   
felt his chest inflate with familiar resentment towards the girl, who was going   
to effectively control his work life unless he succeeded to prove that the chit's   
presence in the studio was all but expedient.  
  
"What do you want from me?" he demanded, this time forgetting to mind his tone or   
take the bite out of his words.  
"Nothing," ensued Serena's quiet answer. "However, I would like to make a trivial   
request, which you may very well choose to disregard."  
"And have you run to complain to Beatrice about my unruly behavior?"  
  
Not having anticipated the hostile outburst, Serena barely choked a pained gasp.   
What could have possibly provoked him to act that way? It couldn't have been something   
she had said, could it? After all, there was not a single word that she had uttered   
without weighing it, and, until the last few days, her judgment had certainly been   
sound. But, the her trained eye had noticed no symptoms of a mental instability in   
her new pupil meant that it was she who had committed a mistake that led them to that   
point, and that it was up to her to mend it.  
  
"I shall never complain to Beatrice about anything you do," she started, fixing her   
gaze on his stony face to impart her honest intent to gain his confidence. "I just   
want to do my job, because I can't just walk away or simulate industriousness. I am   
aware of the fact that I'm no musician, and that shall never be able to instruct you   
professionally, but, may be I can help you with the emotional aspect of singing, which   
I can deal with as a psychologist."  
"Help me? I don't need your help, Serena. Beatrice herself has told you as much. We   
are here to play our designated parts, and if I'm going to listen to you, it will be   
only because this is my duty to Berry ltd, not for any other reason."  
"But Darien..."  
"What did you want to say?"  
  
What kind of determination could endure such callous treatment, she asked herself,   
closing her eyes to keep the harsh reality at bay. What kind of job required such   
strain? What kind of teacher would proceed under such circumstances? What kind of...   
What kind of psychologist would talk to herself, and what kind of literate person   
would ask so many rhetorical questions in one paragraph anyway?  
As a self-mocking smirk etched itself on her face as a result of the unexpected   
associations, Serena allowed her mood to uplift. Not all was lost, after all, if   
her thoughts still strayed to less than depressing subjects.  
  
"It's about the audition. I'd like you to try interpreting the emotions of the   
pieces you're going to hear. It may be helpful if you notice when they change   
the tempo, the volume and the rhythm, because these are what musicians use to   
convey their own understanding of the piece they perform."  
"Correct me if I'm wrong, but..."  
"Just have a little faith in me, Darien. Please. It's not like it's going to harm   
you."  
  
She stood up from the armchair to indicate that the conversation was over, and strode   
into the corridor, leaving a dumbfounded performer in her wake.  
  
So the mentress intended for him to actually participate in the whole ordeal, which   
was rather flattering. She clearly deemed him able to understand what she was on about,   
and that would have proven a balm to his self-esteem had it really been dented during   
their first encounter. And she wanted him to have faith in her. To give his unconditional   
trust, if only in the matters of singing. It wasn't too much to ask, considering that   
she might have made a scene after he had snapped at her. Heck, she might have really   
complained to Beatrice.  
  
Why hadn't she, though? Was she too proud to resort to such lowly measures? The theory   
was unlikely to prove true, as a person who had resorted to begging him to have faith   
in her couldn't be too proud.  
  
Maybe she was loath to appear incompetent? Regrettably, that did not seem to be the   
case. She had been the first one to point out her lack of experience in the field   
during the talk show, which ruled out his second hypothesis, which, accidentally, had   
also been his last one, save for the assumption that she had been sincere.  
  
That, however, was not an assumption Darien was prepared to make, not when everything   
about the midget still reminded him about the near infatuation he had experienced before   
she had started badmouthing him. Neither her earnest mien nor her soothing voice would   
sway him again. She was just another fraud, he determined, and would be dealt with as   
such. She did not deserve his trust, for she had done nothing to earn it except coining   
a couple of corny phrases about having faith. And who was she to decide whether   
cooperating was going to harm him, his late mother, or his wife, God forbid? She wasn't   
even his friend, and until she merited his attention, her request would not be granted.  
  
Her second request. Since the plan was to at least pretend to heed her suggestions, and   
nothing had happened to prompt amending the whole thing. The plan would be adhered to,   
no matter how foolish he might appear because of it.  
  
His mind made up, Darien sauntered towards studio number one, where the auditions were   
about to commence. The procedure would be entertaining, he realized, and one he was kind   
of looking forward to. Serena would not enjoy his comments, and it would be interesting   
to see what persuasion devices she would come up with to make him see her point. If her   
agitated mug the moment when he had spurned her was anything to judge by, her expressions  
would prove capable of performing the impossible, namely distracting him from despairing   
because of the damage, inflicted on his favorite place in the entire building. 


End file.
